The Adventure of the Thirty Days
by causidicus
Summary: The 30 Day OTP Challenge. Each chapter is a self contained story unless otherwise indicated. Disclaimer: I do not own any Sherlock property.
1. Dancing

"Who are we looking for?" John practically yelled in Sherlock's ear.

"Haven't the faintest," Sherlock said, leaning against the bar and scanning the writhing crowd a few feet away from them on the dance floor.

"Then what are we doing here?"

"I'll know him when I see him."

John sighed and finished his drink, waving at the bartender for another. After a minute or two he gave up turned around, crossing his arms. Sherlock looked at him, then turned around at the bar as John watched the crowd.

A cold glass tapped John's knuckles a few moments later. "How did you do that?" John asked, accepting the drink and taking a long gulp. Sherlock sipped his own and didn't answer.

John pressed his lips together and nodded to himself. "Cheekbones," he said without looking at Sherlock.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up.

"Aren't we a little old to be here?"

"You are."

"You're not that much younger than I am." John looked into the crowd, shaking his head. "That person cannot possibly be old enough." He was looking at skinny blond in tight denims flailing a few feet away from them.

"Nineteen, university student," Sherlock said over the music.

"Great," John said sarcastically.

Sherlock pressed another freezing cold glass against his upper arm as John was sucking down the last of his current drink.

John thanked him, tugging on his clingy white v-neck that he found outrageously uncomfortable. Sherlock didn't seem bothered by his girl-tight denims and equally tight black t-shirt. _It's all transport._

Sherlock downed the rest of his drink and placed it on the bar. The second after John did the same Sherlock's fingers clutched his upper arm and dragged him into the center of the hot, pointy mass of people.

"What are we doing?" John said, dodging flying elbows and hips.

"Better vantage point," Sherlock said, looking past John. His hips and shoulders began to move lightly on the beat.

John remained still, staring at Sherlock uncomfortably.

Sherlock sighed loudly and put his hands on John's shoulders, pulling him closer. "Stop drawing attention to yourself." He didn't have to speak as loudly from this distance.

"Sherlock, this is ridiculous-"

"Go back, then."

John left the crowd and went and sat on a stool at the bar once again. Sherlock kept dancing by himself, surreptitiously scanning the room. A tall blond slid in behind him, wrapping his arms around his middle. Sherlock didn't seem to mind, or notice.

One of the blond's hands moved up and down Sherlock's stomach until it drifted just over Sherlock's groin, pulling him closer. Abruptly, he tilted Sherlock's head back, exposing his neck and attaching his mouth to a spot just under his ear.

John was at Sherlock's side before he realized what he was doing.

"Fuck off."

The blond looked at him, then looked at Sherlock, confused. "Are you two..."

"Yes," Sherlock said bluntly.

He looked at John again a little incredulously, then walked off.

After the blond had disappeared into the crowd again Sherlock stared directly at John for the first time that evening.

"You're welcome," John said defensively.

Sherlock shrugged without looking away from him. "It didn't bother me until he obscured my view." He began dancing again, putting his hands on John's shoulders once more.

This time John made an effort to match Sherlock's movements, which wasn't difficult. John could stay on the beat reasonably well.

He realized he could feel Sherlock's hips moving against his now. Had they gotten closer? Must have done. He kept his gaze steadily focused at the intoxicated teenager dancing on stage over Sherlock's left shoulder.

Someone bumped hard into John's back, slamming him into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's shoulder was hot where his face pressed against it and John could smell his deodorant. Sherlock's hands had tightened around John's shoulders to steady him.

John cleared his throat and righted himself, though they remained closer. Their hips touched more often as they moved now.

Sherlock turned them one hundred and eighty degrees, Sherlock now facing the stage and John facing the bar behind the dance floor. He caught glimpses of a mirrored back wall.

Sherlock pulled him and turned them at different angles over the next few minutes, pushing him to different parts of the floor until they were in the left back corner. It was darker here.

Sherlock's hands locked loosely behind John's neck and he felt an overwhelming urge to punch Sherlock in the face, to strangle him. He imagined beating him until Sherlock cowered before him and begged him to stop.

John knew what was behind that violent impulse, though. Even if he denied to others. To himself. _You should have stayed at the bar._

Sherlock had turned his head over his right shoulder. Maybe he'd seen something, finally. John looked in the same direction and saw himself and Sherlock reflected dimly in the mirror on the wall, both of their faces now watching their reflection. John looked away immediately, but Sherlock kept staring.

John couldn't think of an instance since he'd met Sherlock where it'd been clear that Sherlock was having sex, or wanted to. _Maybe the lesbian dominatrix._ A horrible and humiliating stab of jealousy pierced him at the memory; he was certain Sherlock had noticed at the time. _You practically said it out loud, he _heard_ it_. The lengths to which they avoided the topic in conversation had allowed him to forget but he experienced fresh panic at the thought, and fought the urge to grab Sherlock's shoulders and say, "Let me explain."

Sherlock's fingers touched his neck and it felt like he'd touched John on his insides, right above his pubic bone. John looked up.

Sherlock was staring at him with a guarded expression; his mouth was soft, a little slack.

John swallowed, looking down at a corner of the dance floor. When he lifted his eyes again Sherlock's mouth pressed against his.

John went utterly still, eyes remaining open in shock. Sherlock's hands cupped John's face and John felt his stomach violently turn when Sherlock's tongue tentatively pushed through his lips.

Someone bumped into them again and they broke apart, Sherlock looking sharply at offending person before scanning the dance floor once more.

"He's not coming tonight, obviously." Sherlock's voice sounded strange.

John nodded, terrified to look at him.

"Let's go back."

* * *

When they arrived back at 221B John went up to his room without acknowledging Sherlock at all, pausing only to shuck his trousers before crawling into his bed.

The whole thing was probably a goddamn experiment. The thought crushed him. _Pathetic._

Even more pathetic was that his cock didn't seem to understand that the evening was over.

He flipped onto his back and stuck his hand down his pants, nearly groaning when his fingers closed around himself. _Don't think about him, don't think about him, don't_-

But that was impossible; the warm softness of Sherlock's tongue on his own lips was too fresh. Sherlock had put his arms around his neck. Watched them in a mirror. _He wants you, he does_. John's whole body cringed at the thought. _You see what you want to see_. John leaned his head back, fisting his cock viciously.

The door clicked open and John nearly hurt himself pulling the covers up.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John snapped. "Knock, would you?" He realized his reaction would have alerted anyone, absolutely everyone, to what he'd been doing.

Sherlock was standing in the door, a silhouette against the light of the hall.

"What is it?" John asked in a more even tone.

Sherlock didn't say anything but walked in, looking around the room. John heard him sniffing the air and felt himself turn deep red.

"Need something?" John asked in a tight voice.

Sherlock sat on the bed and and deftly pulled John's sheets down, his hard cock and naked legs on full display in the dim light from the hall.

John frantically turned on his side and covered what he could of himself. "The fuck are you doing?" he hissed. He hated Sherlock in that moment, _hated_ him-

Sherlock's fingers closed around his shoulder and pulled him onto his back before John could react, staring as John's swollen cock bobbed against his stomach.

John was paralyzed with humiliation.

Sherlock silently crawled over John until his lower body pinned John's to the mattress and his solemn face hovered above his. John felt his trapped cock leaking onto Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock still had his shoes on.

"What are you doing?" John breathed.

He said nothing in response. John realized, incredulously, that Sherlock was trembling.

John's arms automatically slid around Sherlock's shoulders, anger quietly deflating. "It's ok," John murmured, hand stroking the back of his hair, though he had absolutely no idea what Sherlock wanted or why he was here.

Sherlock buried his face into the space of pillow between John's head and shoulder as John lightly scratched his scalp. _Maybe he's lonely_. That thought amplified John's already considerable guilt.

Sherlock adjusted himself against John's hip and John went still. Sherlock had an erection; it was unmistakable. He resumed trailing his fingers down Sherlock's scalp and back, trying not to dwell on it. Natural reaction to friction, proximity. Sherlock's hips moved again, more deliberately this time, and John exhaled very lightly. Sherlock did it again, and again, until he was rutting against John in the near darkness of his room.

John felt disoriented, distant. The only thing anchoring him to reality was weight of Sherlock's body pressing him into his mattress as he thrust. Sherlock grunted in his ear and John closed his eyes, hands tightening around his back.

"Come on," John said, barely audible. "That's it."

Sherlock whined into his neck and thrust against him more frantically. John's prick was occasionally rubbed and jostled by Sherlock's hip and each point of contact seemed to erase a filter.

"Come on," John said through clenched teeth, beyond caring what he said. "Come for me."

Sherlock's shoulders felt like rocks underneath John's hands and his thrusts were getting jerky and uneven. John was dying to touch his own cock. "Do it, Sherlock," he whispered harshly in his ear, hand gripping a fistful of his dark hair.

One, two, three strokes and Sherlock's hands squeezed John's upper arms hard enough to cut off circulation. "AH!" It was obscenely loud in John's ear. "AH AH AH." Sherlock gasped with each jerk of his hips as he came, thrusting until he went completely limp and still against John. His head fell forward into crook of John's neck again, and the rest of his body became dead weight on top of him. John heard Sherlock's labored breaths against the pillow.

John bit his lip and couldn't help his hips jerking, twitching. He was about to go mad. Sherlock felt it and stirred on top of him, looking down at his face drowsily before his hand closed around John's cock and simply held him.

"You don't have to," John gasped. "Really." Sherlock's grip tightened around John's cock in response, and his damp palm slid up and down.

"Oh God," John whimpered.

Sherlock readjusted himself until his face hovered directly over John's again, his hand working between them. John had to close his eyes against Sherlock's flat and piercing stare.

After a moment Sherlock's hand left him and John opened his eyes briefly to see Sherlock unzipping his own trousers, running his hand through them.

When Sherlock touched him again his hand was wet with semen. John bit his lip, hands fisting the bedclothes beside him. He could feel puffs of Sherlock's breath on his face.

Without warning Sherlock pressed his mouth against John's again and John gurgled against him, feeling his orgasm approaching fast. "Sherlock," he said desperately against his mouth.

John felt the last clench in his stomach and his eyes drifted shut, mouth opening as his cock spurted into Sherlock's hand. He groaned loudly, gripping Sherlock's shoulders tight.

Sherlock held onto his softening cock until it was completely limp and John's head had lolled against the pillows.

Sherlock raised his hand in front of his face, the semen gleaming in the dim light from the hall. John watched unbelievingly as Sherlock put his hand under his nose and inhaled. When John saw the tip of Sherlock's tongue touch his finger John closed his eyes again, unable to bear it.

Eventually Sherlock rolled off of him and climbed out of the bed. With great effort John leaned up and pulled his shirt off. "Here, use this," he said tossing him his shirt and falling back into the pillows. A metal belt buckle struck the wood floor and John turned towards the source of the sound.

Sherlock was illuminated by the light from the hallway, rubbing John's shirt over his stomach and his groin. He was naked.

John looked away and felt bizarrely guilty for having looked in the first place.

After a few moments the bed dipped beside him and John turned his head to find Sherlock curled up on his side, staring at him from the pillow.

John recognized his posture, though he'd very rarely seen it. Awkward. Maybe frightened.

John could make a joke about his frankly lackluster technique, or assure him that it was fine, it was all fine. He could say nothing at all.

John recalled Sherlock shaking against him, and decided to tell him the truth, instead.

"That was brilliant."

He might have imagined it, but he thought he saw Sherlock's limbs relaxing into the mattress. John felt so strong an urge to touch him then, to hold him, that he turned over. Sentiment.

_You need to forget that this happened. Sherlock will._

John closed his eyes but it didn't help. His bed smelled like sex, he could hear Sherlock breathing on the other side. Closing his eyes only made his looping memory of what had just occurred more vivid, sweeter. He felt the mattress shifting underneath him and his heart dropped. _Don't get up just yet. Please._

Sherlock's hand draped carefully over his waist. He'd sidled up almost directly behind John, his breath tickling John's neck.

John's eyes opened to the wall in front of him. He felt unbearably full in his chest. Swallowing, he interlaced Sherlock's fingers with his own. Sherlock squeezed his hand back.


	2. Doing Something Together

"Where did you get that?" John was frowning and crossing his arms.

"Magic," Sherlock said around the cigarette in his mouth as he struck a match.

"You've been doing really well."

Sherlock turned to look at him a moment, considering, then held the cigarette out as he exhaled. "Go ahead." Sherlock's mouth turned up the tiniest bit.

"Go ahead...what?" John blinked at him.

"You want a drag."

John's face changed. "No, actually, I don't-"

"Yes you do." Sherlock said, glancing down at his phone.

John shook his head, hesitating a moment before answering. "Some of us make a concerted effort to overcome bad habits-"

"And you've done splendidly since Afghanistan," Sherlock said, typing out a text with one hand. "Though, at the moment, you're absolutely fiending."

John stared at the cigarette being offered to him.

"I know the signs," he said, putting his phone back down.

John sighed, then gently John picked it out of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock passed him the royal ashtray with it.

"You're terrible," John murmured, closing his eyes and inhaling deep.

"Yes."

John exhaled a long stream of smoke, looking at the cigarette in his hand. "A bit cliche for you, isn't it?"

Sherlock bristled. "What?"

John smiled down at the ashtray as he tapped the ash into it. "A cigarette after a shag? You're practically a desperate housewife."

Sherlock grabbed the cigarette and ashtray back, sulking as he drew his sheet-clad knees up to his chin.

"You like to cuddle after shags," Sherlock muttered, taking a short drag and blowing it in John's direction.

John snorted. "You like to cuddle _during_ shags."

"You like to beg during shags." Sherlock said it sharply.

John took the cigarette out of Sherlock's mouth and grinned. "You like to kiss me during shags," he said around a mouthful of smoke.

"I can find no other way to interrupt your unceasing sentimental drivel."

John's smile turned smug. He held the cigarette in front of Sherlock's face and put his mouth next to his ear.

"You love it."

Sherlock's expression turned murderous. "You love _me_."

John stared at him, surprised. Sherlock abruptly turned to focus on the wall and lifted his hand to his mouth.

"Yes."

Sherlock froze. John slipped the cigarette out from between his fingers, leaning over Sherlock's lap to stub it out on the ashtray on the nightstand before settling back against the headboard. Their shoulders touched as they stared at the same point on the wall.

"Obvious." John smiled faintly.

Sherlock pressed his lips together as his hand found John's on top of the sheet, squeezing it tightly.


	3. Getting Married

Sherlock crossed his legs and leaned back as he typed on his phone. John looked over his shoulder in the chair to his right. "Case?"

"No," Sherlock said without looking at him.

A woman sitting at a desk across the room from them smiled and beckoned them forward. Sherlock remained glued to his phone as the woman inspected the contents of a folder than John presented to her. "All set, she said, stacking the paper and motioning to the room connected with the waiting room.

A middle-aged woman inside of the room greeted them.

"And are your witnesses here?" The woman said, looking over John's shoulder.

John tilted his head backwards towards Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade who were seating themselves in two chairs behind them. Lestrade looked amused.

"All right, we'll get started then." She smiled. "Oh, will you be wanting to add your own vows, or a song?"

Sherlock's eyebrow shot to the ceiling.

"No, thank you," John said graciously.

They were standing in front of the registrar in the centre of the small room, facing each other. Sherlock slipped his phone into his pocket.

"Are you, John Watson, free lawfully to marry Sherlock Holmes?"

"I am."

"And are you, Sherlock Holmes, free lawfully to marry John Watson?"

"I am." The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up.

"Now we'll state the contracting words, repeat after me: I, John Watson."

"I, John Watson."

"Take you, Sherlock Holmes."

"Take you, Sherlock Holmes." John was smiling faintly.

"To be my lawfully wedded husband."

"To be my lawfully wedded husband."

"Are you sure?" Lestrade remarked from his chair.

The registrar looked sharply at him, then turned a little uncomfortably back to John and Sherlock.

Sherlock was smirking at John.

The woman glanced over at Lestrade one more time and cleared her throat. "Repeat after me: I, Sherlock Holmes."

"I, Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock's gaze hadn't wavered from John's face once.

"Take you, John Watson."

"Take you, John Watson." Sherlock put some dramatic flair in John's name. John rolled his eyes but his smiled widened for a moment.

"To be my lawfully wedded husband."

"To be my lawfully, wedded, husband."

"Congratulations, gentlemen. We need everyone to sign this here before you can go celebrate."

Mrs. Hudson didn't wait until they were outside the registry to make her grievances known.

"If I would have know I would have at least made something, you'll have to let me make you something-" she shook her head, annoyed. "You said you wanted to eat lunch, I didn't know-"

"We're sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you," John said, contrite.

She sighed and crossed her arms, looking at some point on the sidewalk. "You're coming downstairs for tea this week."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Sherlock said, frowning down at his phone.

She smiled at them, a little exasperated, before she walked to the kerb to hale a cab. Lestrade shook both of their hands heartily.

"Well, didn't expect this from a lunch invite. Still starving, by the way."

Sherlock flipped him a two-pound coin. "On us," he said, deadpan.

Lestrade pocketed the coin and grinned widely. "Really ah, it's a big deal, hope yours turned out better than mine did, though we had our problems at the beginning that we didn't-"

"Thanks for coming," Sherlock broke in. John's sigh was nearly inaudible.

"Yeah, well. Take care of each other." They stood in silence for a moment. "I think I'm getting sort of emotional," Lestrade added, pleased.

Sherlock nodded at him and walked abruptly towards the kerb to wave down a cab. John reached out and shook Lestrade's hand again. "Thanks, really, I know it was-"

"Hurry up, John," Sherlock snapped as he climbed into the car.

John rolled his eyes but Lestrade grinned wider at him. "Your problem now. 'Til death, in fact."

As they arrived at the door John's stomach gurgled.

"So I know you're not hungry," John said, keys jangling as the door opened, "but I actually would like some-uhf!" Sherlock scooped John up and carried him through the door, kicking it shut behind him.

"Sherlock," John snapped, squirming in his grip.

"Does this count as the threshold?" Sherlock held tight against John's struggles. "We'll go into the one upstairs just to be safe."

Sherlock ascended the stairs easily with John in his arms, which annoyed John, as did all other reminders of Sherlock's physical superiority.

Sherlock slipped John's keys out of his hand and opened the second door, letting John slide to the floor as soon as they crossed into the living room.

John went still in surprise when Sherlock bent down and lightly kissed him.

"Pack a bag," Sherlock murmured against his mouth before darting to the hall closet.

"What?"

"Three days should be sufficient," Sherlock said over his shoulder, pulling his travel bag off of the top shelf.

John stared at him, confused. "Where are we going?"

Sherlock didn't answer; he'd already kneeled in front of one of the endless piles of papers on the living room floor and was rifling through it.

"Sherlock," John said, crossing his arms, "I have shifts at the surgery tomorrow and the next day-"

"No you don't." Sherlock had moved on to boxes next to the fire place, picking up objects at random. At random to John, anyway.

"Ahm yes, I do," John said, frowning, "and furthermore-"

"I've already sorted it out with them." Sherlock waved his hand behind him.

John stared at him with a raised eyebrow. Sherlock turned around and stared back, blinking.

"Oh, I should mention that no one is frightened that you contracted SARS this time," he added.

"Great," John said sarcastically. Sherlock walked past him and grabbed a scarf off of the coat rack. John sighed. "So what's this case about, then?"

"Not a case," Sherlock said, scanning the books on his shelf.

John's eyes narrowed at him. "What are we doing then?"

"We're going to Dartmoor."

John's stared at Sherlock as he crossed the living room into the kitchen. "Dartmoor." John repeated.

Sherlock compared two different forks and carefully put one into his bag. John walked into the kitchen and leaned his shoulder against the wall, watching Sherlock rifled through the beakers in the cabinet with an odd expression.

"A bit sentimental, isn't it?" he asked, smiling faintly at Sherlock when he turned around.

"Yes," Sherlock said, now scanning the contents of the refrigerator, "I do find myself overcome with sentiment near ethically puzzling genetic experiments."

John looked down, his smiled widening a bit as Sherlock continued his packing.

When Sherlock strode past John on his way back to the living room, John caught him gently on his upper arms. Sherlock reluctantly stopped, folding his bottom lip into his mouth and keeping his gaze focused on a corner of the room.

"Thank you," John said.

Sherlock shrugged at the wall.

"I take for granted that we'll be snooping around Baskerville again."

Sherlock stiffened.

"Could be fun," John said, smirking.

Sherlock looked directly at him before kissing him swiftly, hands gripping the sides of his head tight. "I was going to go only after you were asleep at night."

"Sod that. If you go alone you'll end up pickled next to Abbott and Costello." John ran his hands lightly over Sherlock's arms as he spoke. Sherlock's eyes closed.

"Lestrade is right, you know," he muttered. "You're an idiot. For this."

John pressed his lips together, expression turning serious. "The sex is quite good, though."

Sherlock half-smiled at him.

"Only experiment at Baskerville worth repeating, in my opinion."

Sherlock snorted. "That didn't happen in Baskerville. And your treatment of language is offensive."

"Your treatment of me is offensive, I nearly had a heart attack in that facility. I should drug your coffee this time."

"I didn't drug your coffee."

"You tried."

Sherlock leaned his forehead gently against John's, taking a long, slow breath. "And you just contractually bound yourself to me for the remainder of your life. Or, more statistically likely, until you commence divorce proceedings."

"Oh, I won't make it that easy for you."

Sherlock gripped John's shoulders tight enough to startle him. "Good," he said tightly.

John leaned forward and kissed him, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck. "I'll need to see a death certificate first," John breathed into his mouth.

Sherlock leaned forward buried his face in John's neck, squeezing him tight around his middle. "I love you." The words were almost inaudible mumbled against the material of John's jumper.

John's arms tightened around Sherlock's neck and he squeezed his eyes shut. "Me too." Sherlock was leaning all of his weight on John's smaller frame.

Sherlock's phone buzzed and John's hand slipped into his coat pocket, holding the phone over Sherlock's shoulder so that he could see the screen. It was a car rental confirmation email. A quick scroll through his other messages and emails revealed a hotel confirmation, as well.

Something prickled in John's throat and he slipped the mobile back into Sherlock's pocket.

"Important?" Sherlock murmured and John shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

Sherlock leaned up and away from him. John felt his grip around his neck slipping. "We both know you're more likely to get bored with me," John blurted.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smiled a tad condescendingly at him. "Don't be an idiot, John," he said, and turned around to pack his nicotine patches.


End file.
